Thursday, June 25, 2009

Although he is not a prince, Bernardo did grow up in a castle. And now, at the age of almost 80, he lives there still. For more than 500 years his family has inhabited this land, managed its fields, produced wine and olive oil here in the Tuscan hills. The castle itself is called Calcione, and its history is even longer than that of Bernardo's family; it was in the 900s that someone built the first part of Calcione, and in the centuries that followed the castle was expanded and other houses were built. One of those other houses was the farmhouse called San Giuseppe where I stayed for a short time with friends.

Bernardo loves to show us around the castle. Have you ever been with a small boy who wants you to see his treasures? You know how he will take you in his room? Show you his favorite toy car, a rock he found? Bernardo is that boy. But what a room he has, and what toys… “There are more than 100 rooms here,” he tells us, “The hallways upstairs are like a big square. We would run and ride our bicycles in them.” “Come! Follow me!” he yells, and he’s gone into a hallway…“Look here! These are my family!” He points at old oil paintings in large gilt frames that line a wall. These family members of his lived centuries ago, and yet he knows them by name; he tells us stories about them. Then abruptly he again turns and disappears. “Follow me! Let’s go outside now!”

Now we are at the front of the castle. There are the two large doors of wood; high, heavy, massive doors that every castle deserves. If they were opened Cinderella and all her coach and horses would be entering, I know this with certainty. We pass, not through them, but through a small, man-sized door that is hinged into one of the large doors. We’re in the courtyard. There is castle all around. The ground is dirt. There is a cart here, a barrel there. For a moment I forgot what century we are in. Here, I don’t think it matters. Bernardo speaks about parties they have here. I can imagine the tables, the lights. I can almost hear the music, but it is interrupted when I again hear, “Come! Follow me this way!” He disappears through a small door in the side wall. We follow.

It’s a chapel. Tiny. Silent. Maybe six rows of pews. There are frescoes everywhere on the walls and ceiling. Bernardo says, “Look at our relic.” We look at the glass case to which he is pointing. Inside is the skeleton of a 14-year-old boy, martyred more than 600 years ago. The skeleton has been encased in a wax figure of a boy sleeping, dressed in robes of his era. One wax foot is broken, and you can see the bones inside. Incredible…

I want to stay in the chapel a bit more, but Bernardo already has another plan. Another hallway, along what I think is another side of the castle. An arched door. It’s necessary to use a lock to open this one. A small room, with one small window. The window is locked tightly and covered with another layer of glass. A large dark wooden table dominates the center of the room. Bookshelves line three walls, and all the shelves are filled with binders, files, papers. The shelves are orderly and neat, the table, conversely, is strewn with papers. “It’s the archive for the castle,” explains Bernardo. They must be preserved in this way, in this hermetically sealed, humidity controlled room. If you wanted to see what was spent on food during a month in 1694, it’s in here. “Ah!” he says. He’s found the thing he’s been rummaging for on the table. "Look! Look at this," he exclaims. "You will find this interesting maybe." The parchment found by Bernardo passes hand to hand around the table while he speaks. "Look closely at the signature at the bottom. You see that it is the signature of Lorenzo di Medici, and it is saying that he gave to my family another piece of land then."

Bernardo, eighty years old, looked again like that small boy with his favorite toy. He was practically jumping. I, well, I was astounded by these treasures in his toy box. His toys belong in a museum. And living here in his museum, he, I think, will feel young always. Maybe it's easy to stay eternally young when your home is 1000 years old, and your family is 500. Maybe in this atmosphere ancient and wonderful one can feel always like a child.

About Me

Life is strange... How else can you explain how a bottle of red table wine could set into motion a series of wonderful events that have brought me here. Read my stories, in English or Italian, as you wish, come vuoi, and enjoy them. Grazie.